


First

by YourGayDads



Series: Mating Mates [4]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Modern AU, and exposition, just a lot of talking, no sex in this one whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:07:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23341423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourGayDads/pseuds/YourGayDads
Summary: James & Thomas inadvertently go on a date.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Series: Mating Mates [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650973
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	First

**Author's Note:**

> this still needs work but have at it anyway!

He was a friend of a friend. Or rather he was the husband of his girlfriend. Or more accurately — but also confusingly — only sort of a husband and only sort of a girlfriend. 

The exact type of person James was born to hate, he was a rich, entitled white man who benefitted fully from each of these qualities. He was tall and fit too. How could you not hate him? If James had had to guess who he was the first time they met, he might have presumed from his understated but clearly expensive clothes and his avid interest in art and literature that he was the editor-in-chief of some tony quarterly magazine that cost £20 an issue. Definitely not an investment banker, no. Not the founder of a faddish start-up or someone else equally punchable. He was too curious about you to be any of those, but what he did at all still wasn’t obvious to James. 

“They say he’s a bit — “ They’d wobble their heads as a replacement for the word “mad,” the snobs who occupied Miranda’s upper-class milieu. “Takes after his late mother, the poor woman. Something rotten in the ol’ blue blood. And that’s why he stopped living with Miranda.”

“Not because he prefers having sex with men?”

“For the nobility, being gay is hardly a valid reason for divorcing your wife.”

James mustered a grin of gritted teeth at this then threw the rest of his drink down his gullet. Instead of continuing this conversation, he gestured to his empty glass and legged it to the bar.

He snatched a gougère off a passing tray as he awaited his third drink. He watched a gaggle of socialites watch Thomas over the rims of their wine glasses, out of fascination and maybe lust as well. He greeted them with chaste kisses before moving smoothly and swiftly along. He met James’s gaze with a smile and headed towards him. James straightened himself and pushed a lock of hair behind his ear, but Thomas was absorbed into another circle of slightly sloshed women before he could reach him. James felt a pang of disappointment and wondered irritably who among those women still had her original nose.

He didn’t bother asking Miranda what they had gathered there for, because there was always a birthday or an historic anniversary to celebrate, a cause to raise money for, or the opening of something or another. She usually attended in support of a family friend or a distant relative. Being proper and English, they acknowledged James icily but not who he was to her. As much he would have preferred hiding out with the catering staff, he knew Miranda needed him, her touchstone for what was rational and real in a world that was a gross distortion of itself. He even bought a second suit.

Over time though, he found himself more and more at Thomas’s side instead of hers at these events. The social operator when he needed to be, he never seemed to forget a name. He could chat about deadly boring golfing holidays with fluency and trade World War II trivia with the oldest among them. In spite of his reputation, they couldn’t resist being charmed by him. But he didn’t suffer much either, so there were those who still regarded him with barely disguised contempt. It heartened James that this persona wasn’t cultivated at the expense of his integrity, and maybe he laughed too loudly when Thomas once threw his drink in a young Tory’s pompous prick face. 

Periodically Thomas would excuse himself mid-conversation to flee the scene. James assumed for a smoke, but he never smelled of it. He eventually learned that the gossip, the main course at these affairs, much of it about himself, was what he was taking respite from. Since James had no interest in partaking of it, it was only logical that he would become his regular partner in diversion. Aside from his relationship with Miranda, that was how he explained Thomas’s chumminess with him anyway, and Thomas eagerly took advantage of his company. 

In these grand homes, he showed James secret passages and stairwells. He spoke passionately to him about the design of a chair or a piece of molding. About the bizarre lives of the artists who created the stately paintings that hung everywhere but were generally ignored. They walked many manicured gardens together and talked at length about James’s life in the Navy before rejoining Miranda.

Having had no opportunity to sneak away with him this time, the afternoon dragged on painfully. Drink in hand, he went to look for Miranda. He spotted her in a tight corner, ensnared in the clutches of an ancient dowager. He couldn’t catch her eye so he guiltily slunk out of the crowded room in search of a quiet space. He walked down a corridor and came upon a pair of double pocket doors. He slid one aside a hair and peeked inside. _Aha, the library_. He discreetly slipped in and shut the door behind him.

“Hello, James.”

James nearly dropped his drink.

“Thomas. Hey.”

“Are you seeking sanctuary?”

“As usual. You?”

“Bored. Rogers’s people are really not the best source of scintillating conversation. They’re all in business, have you noticed? I don’t even know what that means. Business.”

“The business of being a bunch of self-absorbed twats, I guess.”

Thomas snickered. “I feel like I can tell you that, in truth, it was either cool off in here or start a row in front of everyone. And I didn’t feel like providing more grist for the gossip mill today.”

“Over what, may I ask?”

He sighed heavily and turned a page in the book he was holding. “I overheard Siggy Fenwick make a comment about my mother.”

“Usually that calls for a boot in the arse if you want to point out this Siggy tit to me.”

“Knowing what I do about him, he’d probably enjoy that.”

James grimaced. Part of him wanted to ask how he acquired this knowledge, but the rest of him vehemently didn’t. Not wanting to dwell on it further, Thomas smiled and dismissed it with the wave of a hand.

James gestured to the book he was leafing through and sidled up to him for a closer look. Thomas turned the spine up to show him the gilt lettering that spelled out “Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.”

“Have you read him?”

“No. Not really interested in the wisdom of Emperors.” James scanned the shelves then pulled down a small green hardcover with florid Victorian binding.

“But you are in the poetry of Wyatt?”

“He’s all right.”

“‘I desire to perish, and yet I ask health. I love another, and thus I hate myself. I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain; Likewise displeaseth me both life and death, And my delight is causer of this strife.’”

“Mood killer.”

“Right, I do recall Miranda telling me your middle name.”

“You just whip out verses like that, do you?”

“It’s a real panty-dropper with the ladies.” Thomas smirked. “Perhaps I come off as the type to, but, no, I don’t. Only for those I think may appreciate it. Was I wrong in thinking that you would?”

James smiled and looked down at the book. He touched the old leather with some resentment. It was a beautiful object that surely cost a pretty pound but was lost in the sea of things the wealthy tended to accumulate frivolously.

“No. You’re not wrong.”

His phone audibly buzzed in his pocket. Thomas took the book from him to free his hand.

“Miranda’s finally ready to leave. Thank fuck.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll see you around at the next do then. Or maybe we can have dinner some time — with Miranda.”

“Yeah.” James polished off his drink and, sans coaster, left the glass on a shelf. “Middle name’s Edward by the way.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Easter break was approaching, which meant the onslaught of annual spring fundraisers was too. When Miranda called James, asking him to join her for yet another evening, he sighed with relief when it was only for dinner with Thomas. He knew he’d been out of the country for a while, traipsing around the Bahamas according to her, and was wondering what he’d been up to. Deprived of his accomplice in avoiding mingling, he had hoped for a more expedient return.

For an extrovert, Thomas’s presence on social media was oddly non-existent. James expected to find a selfie or two somewhere. Anywhere. Perhaps of him wielding a colorful drink, his hair ruffled by the Caribbean breeze, or shirtless and sunning himself. But not a one. So he trawled the internet for old paparazzi snaps and step-and-repeat photo ops. When he exhausted those, he read interviews of him and editorials by him. He considered it preparation in a way since this would be the first time he’d spend with him outside of the context of a social event. Why he felt the need to prepare though eluded him. How despising his kind and the anticipation at seeing him could occupy the same space simultaneously was even more mysterious.

James arrived first at the restaurant, an old-school place that had become ironically trendy. It was full of people who looked important or famous or were in their own minds.

From the corner of his eye, James saw Thomas swan in. He was hard to miss. He was looking down at his phone, most certainly reading the same text he had just read.

“We’ve been stood up, my friend,” he declared as he sat down. “What are you drinking?”

“An Old Fashioned.”

“Alan, an Old Fashioned, please.”

James scratched his brow and rolled his eyes under the hood of his hand. _Alan_. The way they smiled at each other — they must have been fucking. Because the rich liked fucking people who were subservient to them, didn’t they? He had to admit Alan was quite attractive and felt a twinge of envy.

“I take it you come here a lot.”

“For lunch mostly. I do a lot of daytime drinking,” he said with a wink.

It was the kind of canned joke that normally wouldn’t even earn a smirk but a laugh escaped James anyway.

“Right.”

Thomas then undid two buttons on his shirt like he’d just come off a long day at work. The impeccably white fabric was bright against his tan skin. His blond late-day stubble practically glittered in the light of the table’s candle. His open collar had the illusory effect of making his already long neck even longer. 

_Bloody giraffe._

They got the usual, meaningless formalities out of the way. Thomas brushed off his time in the Bahamas as catnaps and cocktails before changing the subject to James and his work. 

“My performance appraisal? I told you about that?”

“Yes. At the Guthries’ garden luncheon. Miranda was wearing that green number, and you had your hair up in that daft, little ponytail. But you’ve obviously cut your hair since.”

“And now you miss my daft, little ponytail?”

“It had a certain charm. I won’t lie.”

“It went fine by the way.”

“Well, congratulations, Captain. Can I call you Captain? Captain James E. McGraw — _ooh_.”

“Don’t. Please,” James entreated, smiling, Thomas’s mirth catching. “It doesn’t mean they’re going to promote me.”

“Of course they’ll promote you. Why wouldn’t they? I say, we should order some champagne to celebrate. What do you think?”

“I think we should order food.”

“Ah, yes, food. But before we make any critical decisions about what to eat…”

Thomas reached into his jacket and laid on the table the slim volume of Wyatt poems James had his eye on the last time they talked. With a self-satisfied smile, he pushed it towards him.

“Is that — ? _Oh_. It is. Wait… Did you steal this?”

Thomas wiggled his fingers, the tools of his crime, in the air. James didn’t exactly echo his amusement.

“Oh, don’t worry. That Rogers is too busy smelling his own farts to ever realize it’s missing.”

“You know I can’t take this.”

“It’s Woodes Rogers!”

“Well. You do make a persuasive case.” He picked it up and chuckled. “Wow. Thanks.”

Before James knew it, another round of drinks was brought to their table. He wasn’t sure what number round this was since Thomas kept reordering the second he’d reached the bottom of his glass. He’d taken his jacket off now, uncovering the full extent of his bespoke shirt. Cut perfectly to the profile of his torso and the slopes of his broad shoulders and chest, he looked like he’d been poured into it. James choked on a piece of his drink’s decorative orange slice.

After they finished eating, more alcohol was consumed. The volume of their laughter gradually dialed down. The restaurant had shrunk to just their table, cozily dark at the edges and warmly lit in the center. They talked like they’d known each other for years. Anyone who saw them would have thought they were old friends catching up. James couldn’t help thinking though that this was an effect of Thomas’s years of expert glad-handing. His uncanny ability to make you feel like the most important person in the room, no matter who you were, so when he got what he wanted from you, it had been given enthusiastically. But what could he possibly have wanted from him? Someone who, from his ivory tower, was a mere speck.

The tone of their conversation had become introspective as too much alcohol tended to make it. James heard enough by then about Thomas’s juvenile scrapes with the law and other youthful escapades but little about who he was now. He figured someone like him would be actively countering all the rumors, but Thomas was strangely reluctant to do so as if there was no point in trying. So James just finally asked what it was that Thomas did, and for the first time he hesitated.

He made a pained face before responding. “Well, according to the media, my current choice of career is gay bon vivant. As if enough people didn’t find me insufferable. I used to work for the Earl — I mean, my father — mostly researching obscure Parliamentary rules and acts, but we parted ways on less than amicable terms. Since then I’ve been…luxuriously aimless. You of course have far livelier stories about the Navy.”

James saw easily through this attempt to steer the conversation away from himself.

“Can’t be all that bad. You did just spend — how many months? — in the Bahamas, doing…” James shrugged. “How many of us get to live like that?”

“The reality is I spent most of my time there trapping cats.”

James flinched. “You were doing what to cats?”

“I was trapping feral cats to have them neutered. I started working with a local shelter after I brought in a kitten I found on the veranda.”

“No. You’re having me on.”

“Honest!’ Thomas excitedly removed a cufflink and pushed his sleeve up. The faded vestiges of many, many scratches crisscrossed his forearm.

“You spent all that time getting your arse kicked by pissy island cats? Didn’t you read the job description for gay bon vivant? You were supposed to be passing out on pool floats when you weren’t shagging your dick off.”

“I’m not like that,” Thomas said curtly and sternly.

James’s stomach twisted. “I was joking.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve mostly resigned myself to the fact that people will always believe the worst about me. But, Christ, does it get tiresome.” Thomas flopped back in his chair with a huff and a laugh. “After the press got wind about the divorce, and our names were in the papers again, the Earl had a fit. He had me lay low in New Providence Island and return only after the noise had died down. And then I got really involved in this…cat… _thing_.”

“You know you don’t have to do what he tells you to.”

Thomas didn’t reply. He rolled an ice cube around in his glass.

“I mean, if it’s the money — ” 

“It’s the money. And my house — his house. It’s not that I haven’t thought about leaving it all behind. The gossip. The distractions.”

“It’s easier than it seems, believe me.”

Thomas seemed to take this more than anything else James had said as a rebuke of his privilege. He raised his glass to his mouth only to find it empty. James saw his eyes bounce over to the bar then return to him. Apparently he had finally had enough to drink.

“I’m not sure if I know how to live like — ”

“A normal person? First, you get a job like the rest of us clowns. Don’t you have five degrees?”

“Three. All of them utterly useless.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t write again. Or teach.”

“Like Miranda.”

“Surely she can help get you placed somewhere. Your background can’t hurt.”

Thomas folded his arms and leaned forward. He was close enough now that James could see the flickering flame of the votive in his pupils.

“You know what’s the worst thing about advice, James?”

“What?”

“Nobody ever really takes it.” He sat back again, his face vaguely glum. “I suppose it’s not the worst idea. The Earl thought that I’d at least do what other children of the rich did if I wasn’t going to advance his interests in the way he prefers. Join a museum board or take up photography or whatever. I honestly thought if I worked for him, I could change things from the inside.”

“Change him?”

Thomas guffawed then tried to drink from his empty glass again. “I’ve always harbored a shred of hope that that was possible. If he could change then any of those old, reactionary bastards could too. I can’t help hoping. It’s a longstanding problem of mine, you should kno— ”

Chair legs suddenly screeched against the floor. Only then did James realize that the restaurant was empty except for them and another patron in the farthest corner. Thomas turned partially in his seat towards the source of the sound. When he turned back, his eyes had gone steely and his mouth hard. James looked past him to see a grim-faced man about their age approaching them. He looked familiar, but James couldn’t quite put a finger on his identity.

When he reached their table, a wolfish grin overtook his face. James now recognized him as an MP, that rictus the same one in his official portrait.

“My lord! Having a lovely night out, are we?” he slurred without so much as glancing at James.

“Yes. And you?” Thomas asked with flinty politeness.

He leaned in on his hands, knuckles-down on the table. James bristled when he blocked his line of sight to Thomas.

“Excuse me — “

The man pivoted to James, glaring him down for having dared to speak to him. James was hardly impressed and threw his hands up.

“You mind?”

“Peter,” Thomas interjected.

“This your new — _boy_?”

Thomas recoiled. “‘Boy’?” he and James repeated incredulously.

“Oh. Oh shit. You’re, erm, with Miranda, aren’t you?” he said with a cawing laugh. “Your father will most certainly embrace this news with delight.”

“Jesus, Peter, leave them out of this,” Thomas muttered witheringly. “What do I have to do so that you’ll leave us alone?”

“ _You know what._ ”

And that was all James needed, the sight of his hand gripping Thomas’s upper arm. Nearly tipping the table, James leaped to his feet and yanked him away with such force, he fell backwards into a neighboring one, sending cutlery clattering and glasses to the floor.

“James!” 

Thrown off his feet along with Peter, Thomas pulled himself up by a barstool. He rushed to insert himself between them and laid his hands on James’s shoulders, keeping him at arm’s length from Peter, who stood behind him, flustered and stammering half-formed threats. The front-of-house staff quickly gathered around Peter, trying to placate him while also ushering him out the door. 

James watched the spittle fly from his mouth and his finger stab the air until the manager guided him away from the restaurant and out of sight. Fuming, his mind was blank but the thought of breaking him apart like a Christmas cracker. 

“I’ll kill him — “

“James,” Thomas pleaded. “Take a breath for me.”

It took a few before he returned to his senses. He brusquely brushed Thomas’s hands away and sat down in the nearest chair, mortified but sufficiently calm.

The manager returned, rubbing his hands anxiously.

“Am I going to have to call my solicitor?” Thomas asked him half-jokingly.

“Eh. He’ll probably forget all of this by morning, he’s so wasted.”

“I’m so, so sorry. I just — “ Thomas pressed a credit card into his hand. “Settle us up — and his bill as well.”

Thomas dropped down onto the chair next to James. He knocked his knee with his.

“Thank god this place was empty. If anyone had taken a photo or a video, the Earl would have had me — and Peter — skinned alive.”

“Fuck,” was all James could say.

Thomas looked down at his feet, but James could see that he was smiling. A nervous tic. It had to be. What reason could he have to smile about him assaulting a member of Parliament?

“We should probably go then.”

“Yeah.”

He reached for his jacket when James pointed to his flapping sleeve.

“Oh,” he murmured absentmindedly and picked up the cufflink. His hand unsteady, he couldn’t thread it so James plucked it from his fingers and fastened it himself.

“Thank you. It’s not like my life is devoid of confrontation, but — “

“It’s all right.”

“I guess I’ve managed to completely forget that aspect of it tonight.”

On their way out, Thomas dropped some notes on the bar for the restaurant’s troubles. Alan trotted up to them and handed James the Wyatt book. Thomas thanked him with a too familiar squeeze of the arm.

“So are you going to tell me what that was about?” James asked outside of the restaurant.

Thomas ran his hands through his hair, mussing it completely. It looked wrong, and James desperately wanted to tidy it.

“Peter, he… He’s been making overtures to the Earl for a while now after I refused to play matchmaker. My father is a major shareholder of a property development company. So I suspect whatever Peter’s involved in is related to a scheme for government property in his county. I’m betting that they are cooking up something to secure the company’s bid to do the work. That is what I’ve managed to glean from asking around anyway. Obviously Peter is not particularly happy about that.” Thomas sighed. “He was a good friend once.”

“Probably safe to assume he’ll benefit from this scheme too but the residents not so much.”

“Do urban redevelopment schemes ever? I tried to canvass one of the council estates, but as you can also safely assume they did not welcome me warmly.”

“I could join you. If you want to make a second go of it.”

“Would you? That would be awfully grand of you.”

“Anything to help fuck this Peter guy. And your father. I know it’s not my place to say, but I’m not going to mince my words either. Not about him. I’ve read the rancid shit that’s come out of his mouth. What he’s said about you and Miranda. I could punch him in the throat for even the slightest of those insults.”

“Please, don’t hold back,” Thomas jested. “Look, if you thought well about him, I would’ve had to question what Miranda saw in you.”

They exchanged faint but reassuring smiles. They were both still vibrating at a high pitch. Needing another moment to collect himself, Thomas leaned against the building.

“I am dreadfully sorry. That wasn’t how I was expecting to end the night.”

“I’m the one who should be apologizing.” James took out his phone. “Where do you live? I’ll get a car for you.”

“I’m not far. I could use the postprandial walk and shake off some of these nerves.”

“I’ll walk you home then.”

“That’s very gallant of you, Captain, but I assure you I can take care of myself. I should get a car for you though.”

“ _No._ I’m walking you home.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows in disbelief then his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “If you must.”

They walked in companionable silence until James insisted on taking the high street instead of a faster route that consisted of dark, winding side roads. They argued. James jabbed the map on his phone with increasing impatience. In the end, Thomas could only laugh at his lethally serious visage and let him lead the way. He joked that this was his ploy to prolong their time together. 

When they neared the mews Thomas lived in, James’s phone died.

“Damn it. Which way now?”

James turned his head for an answer, but Thomas was not by his side. Panic seized him. He whipped around to find him about three feet behind, standing in place.

“What? What is it?”

“I’m beginning to suspect that Miranda set us up.”

“Huh?”

“For a date.”

“A what?” A date. Did people even still call it that? James shrugged. “Do you think that was a date?”

“I know what I wanted it to be. Do you?”

“I — can you just tell me which way we should be heading?”

“Please answer the que— ”

“It wasn’t a date. Miranda came down with something and canceled at the last minute. Happens all the time.” James stuffed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “I don’t fucking know. Could be something Miranda might do.”

Thomas swiftly closed the space between them. God, he was tall and, James had to admit, somewhat intimidating.

“What do you know then?”

“Can you just tell me what you’re getting at?”

Thomas wouldn’t say more, but his silence was resolute like he would have waited there forever for an answer. Maybe he was drunk. Very drunk. Maybe they both were. 

His eyes appeared excessively shiny. Wet. It must have been a trick of the light. No. They didn’t appear like anything. They were in fact rimmed with tears — _tears_. Tears that sent James’s brain scrambling to think of anything that might make Thomas smile. In that moment, he would have done anything to make him forget what transpired in the restaurant. Anything to make him happy.

James relaxed his shoulders. “I think I know why Miranda fell in love with you.”

“Are you saying you’re falling in love with me?”

They froze on the question, stunned by how ridiculous it sounded, then broke into a fit of ugly, crying laughter. 

“Fuck off.”

James playfully pushed him away, but Thomas deftly grabbed his hand and pulled him in close. Instinctually James stiffened, unused to being handled like this, and flattened his lips against his teeth, but the shock of it along with months of denial melted quickly in the warmth of Thomas’s mouth. Thomas peeled away, just for a second, just for a breath, before kissing him again as gently as before. James brought his hands up his back and drew him in until their bodies were flush. They might not have made sense together, but they did fit together so beautifully.

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” James answered against his cheek.

A group of noisy revelers turned the corner and staggered down their way. They shuffled apart and stepped aside for them, but their hands lingered in each other’s. After they passed, James wondered if he should kiss him again or if Thomas might invite him to his house, but they both seemed at a loss as to what to do next.

“It’s late,” Thomas said softly and let his hands fall from his.

James nodded dumbly. 

Just then a taxi came up the road and decided for them. Thomas was at the curb in two long steps and flagged it down. He opened the door for James, who, without thinking, boarded. Thomas kept his hand on the frame as if he debated leaping inside to join him. James wanted to say, _yes, get in the car with me, yes, I’m falling in love with you_ and wanted to grab that hand. How he wanted to. So much. How much he had wanted but never allowed himself. How much he had simply just wanted, but then Thomas shut the door.

As his form receded in the distance, James began to feel the pull back to earth. A long fall later, he found himself in his body again, heavy, and in the dark, lonely.

The walk up to his flat, suddenly so precarious, took longer than it should have. Every footfall died on each carpeted stair with a dull thud. As he approached his door, he filled with dread over what lay on the other side of it.

He opened it, and his place was as it always had been. Small. Neat. Some would say spare. It was the first flat he ever had to himself, and getting it was a milestone in his hardscrabble life. After he leased it, he realized how starved he was for living alone. For all of this to be his and only his. The arrangement of its contents, the orderliness, the control. He believed that he could close his eyes and navigate the space without a misstep. But now he wasn’t so sure like everything had moved an inch to the right.

Without taking his shoes or jacket off, he sprawled out on the bed. 

“ _Unh_ ,” he grunted. He had lain on top of the book in his pocket.

He pulled it out and lightly traced the embossing with his thumbnail. While he stared at it, he tried to pinpoint the moment when he and Thomas turned into something else. When falling somehow became flying. Either way made him feel sick to his stomach though. He closed his eyes and touched the book to his mouth. He could still feel the impression of Thomas’s on his as if it had been remolded to it. Like his entire world had been transformed by his lips.

The next morning, his eyes slipped open like it was the darkness that had split, and the sun shined in as if for the first time. Everything new, James looked forward to relearning his life.


End file.
